She is considering it – or she pretends to. Her mouth twitches, a small tongue darting out, licking the rain from her lips. Hunger hits me again, impossibly, my whole body humming with it. It would be perfect if I were to perish now, in this pretty meadow, with these pretty lips so near. Perfect, and so unfair. Instinctively, I inch forward, my skin claiming the blade’s sharp kiss.
‘You’re mad as a march hare,’ she whispers. But her hand falters, and that’s all I need.
I lift up my torso, slowly, testing the waters of ournewfound understanding, blood dripping from my neck into my bosom. Anassa’s eyes follow the scarlet trail. Her cheeks flush.
‘What’s the matter, Anassa, don’t like your handiwork? Don’t tell me you haven’t done this before,’ I challenge her. ‘I know a killer when I see one.’
She huffs, and if I wasn’t at least somewhat wary of her severing my neck, I’d burst out laughing. ‘Not like this,’ she mutters. ‘This is … different.’
I wrap my hand around her wrist, and she shivers. ‘Different how? Death is death. The method doesn’t matter, only your willingness to dole it out. So are you?’ I demand. ‘Willing?’
The meadow holds its breath with us, the constant patter of the raindrops receding. Only my pulse keeps up the rhythm, waiting for Anassa to decide if our journey ends here. If this knife, like a loom’s spoke, will have to cut one of our threads. If I’m deranged enough to let her.
Eventually, she shakes her head. The meadow exclaims, the rain falling faster on us now, my heartbeat quickening along. Slowly, as if not to spook her, I prise the knife from her hand, storing it back inside my cloak. She lets me. So pale she is, ivory skin half-cloaked in black, soaking with sweet rain. Her pouty lips are like a rose revelling in nice weather, petals plumped open for a bee to kiss … I shake my head, to clear my thoughts. There should be consequences for what she almost did. I should not be inching closer, tilting my head, inhaling her scent, searching her eyes for any hint of hunger that could mirror mine. Her lashes flutter, adorned with jewel-like raindrops, and I should stop this now; we’re close, too close, breaths burning at each other’s lips, my fingers squeezing milk-whitewrists that feather with a frenzied pulse yet yield deliciously, so deliciously as I tug at them, driving me mad with something like –
A flicker, at the corner of my eye. Three orbs of light flying in a formation too complex to be coincidental. Realizing we’re not alone, I let go of Anassa, my hands complaining at the sudden emptiness. Yet the floating lights are trying to show me something … There. To my left, half-hidden behind a thicket of trees, the telltale curvature of columns rising upward. The lights disappear in that direction. We’re still playing the Moirai’s game, it would seem. No time for feeding this wild thing in me that’s turned so ravenous. ‘Come, Anassa.’ I get up abruptly and offer her my hand. Dazed and flushed, she accepts. ‘I think we may have found the three Moirai again. There is a temple, up ahead, see?’
‘I see … something. A pavilion, perhaps?’
‘I don’t know what your words mean,’ I sing-song as I run, still holding her hand.
By the time we stop in front of the temple, we’re both completely out of breath.
‘Shh,’ I tell her. ‘If the three sisters are here, we should be respectful.’
Her gaze is both pine-needle sharp and sticky-sap sweet. ‘If you say so, Claret.’
We ascend a pair of stairs into a raised circular structure which, upon close examination, doesn’t resemble any temple I have ever worshipped in. There is a marble bench placed in the middle, curvy like a harp. And perched upon it, ornate goblet in hand sloshing with dark red liquid, is a grotesque beast not unlike the Minotaur of old.
Man from the neck down, but with a donkey’s head.
And with an appetite for wine, judging by what I can smell is in that cup.
I dissolve into rambunctious laughter. What is this latest trial the Moirai brought us? Are we supposed to slay this drunken beast, or use it to lead us out of the labyrinth? I venture closer, to get a better look. It doesn’t seem so scary. And it’s well dressed, albeit wine-smelling, with strange, form-fitting hides and frilly swathes of fabric. I reach out a hand.
The beast bleats. A prolonged, mindless sound. Funny little beast. I turn around, to share this new absurdity with Anassa, but she’s not laughing. Her green, green eyes are wide.
‘My Lord Macbeth,’ she whispers.
15. Anassa
‘Are you one of mine?’
How beautiful, how terrible my lord’s voice is – how I would know it anywhere, in any realm. Even under this ludicrous mask he’s wearing, which muffles his speech. It must be a disguise to distract our enemies.
Oh, how unmoored he must have been, how lost without me! Besieged by grief at my demise, he must have followed me into this world … A wave of guilt crests at my chest, entirely unprompted. I feel so warm, all the way up to my ears. Anything wrong I may have done during our unlikely separation, anything untoward or unwifelike surely can be excused. Can’t it?
But before a flutter of birds inside calls me a liar, bringing to mind the way Claret’s blood glistened in her throat, tracing a path of red intention to her cleavage … my lord repeats himself.
‘Are you one of mine?’
It’s hard to tell where his gaze falls, under this donkey mask, yet it’s not hard to glean his meaning. ‘My Lord Macbeth,’ I declare, ‘I remain forever yours. Your loyal wife and servant.’
The birds don’t like that. They caw at me, unseen, urging me to retract my words.
My lord stands up, throwing his mask away with aflourish that seems oddly rehearsed. The donkey head lands on the floor with a hollow sound, as if made from less sturdy material than it looks, its empty pupils pointed upward. My lord’s skin seems flushed, sweaty. ‘Wife? No, no, creature, don’t confuse yourself. I already have one of those – and one is quite enough, if not too many. Now, do step closer, let me look at you.’
His manner confuses me. He’s clearly in his cups, which is odd in itself, because I can’t recall my husband ever being drunk. And his accent … Words elongated, vowels tilting, as if an English spirit has possessed his Scottish tongue, stretching it sideways, squeezing out his brogue. But it’s the content of his words, more than their shape, that gives me pause. ‘What do you mean, my lord? I am your lady wife. Your “dearest partner of greatness,” as you call me.’
